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GEORGE 

A SKETCH 

by 
H. K. GORMALL 

Copyright 1916 by Samuel French, Lid. 



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GEORGE 



GEORGE 



A SKETCH 



By 

H. K. GORNALL 



Copyright, 1916, by Samuel French, Limited 



New York 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30, WEST 38TH STREET 



London 
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd 

26, Southampton Street 
STRAND 



A 6 



' 






GI.D 43664 



v. 



APR 19 1916 



GEORGE. 



DRAMATJS PERSON/E. 



Timothy Treuwick . 
Martha Treuwick . 
George . 
Dorcas . 
Corporal Bill Hawke 

JoSLAH COBLEY 



. /;.' 'old '" salt." 

His third wife. 

Son to Timothy, a sailor. 

Daughter to Timothy. 

Courting Dorcas. 

George's grandfather. 



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Strand, London, 

or their authorized representatives. 

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has first been obtained. ' 

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formance of plays contained in French's list may be hired or 
purchased reasonably from Messrs. Charles H. Fox, Ltd., 
27, Wellington St., Strand, London. 



GEORGE. 

Scene. — Treuwick's kitchen. Doors r., l. and centre. 
Time.- — Evening. 

(When curtain goes up Timothy is seen seated before 
the fire smoking a churchwarden. Martha opposite 
knitting.) 

Timothy. Well, mother, what about me 'aving 
a pint of ale to-night seeing how as it's All's birthday ? 

Martha. Oh, Alf s birthday, is it ? 'Tis more 
birthdays you can remember than sons, seems to me. 

Timothy. Alf s birthday be the twelfth anyway, 
and it ain't right he should be forgotten, him being 
far away across seas. 

Martha. Well, yesterday were the twelfth, so you 
be a day late, Timothy. 

Timothy. It be due to him, all the same. 

Martha (giving way). Oh, well, if it ain't one 
thing, it's another. If it ain't Alf, it's Perct^ or 
'Erbert or Jack or Enoch or one of they others. 

(Takes money out of a tea-pot and goes off with jug.) 
(Timothy gets a glass. Enter Dorcas from c.) 
Dorcas. Where's 'er gone, dad ? 

(Timothy does not answer.) 
.I'm speaking to you, dad. . . . Where be 'er gone ? 

(No answer.) 
Where's mother gone to ? 

7 



8 GEORGE. 

Timothy. Aye, aye, lass — now you be speaking 
respectful-like. 'Er's my third wife and your third 
mother. So don't you 'forget your dooty to your 
parents what you learnt in your commandments at 
Sunday School. 

Dorcas. All right, dad. Be mother gone to the 

village ? 

Timothy. 'Er's gone to the inn to get your old 
dad a pint of ale, seeing as how it be Alf 's birthday. 

Dorcas. Alf s birthday ! It were Enoch's birth- 
day the day before yesterday if that's what you be 
thinking of. 

Timothy. Ave, aye, lass ; 'twas Enoch I meant. 
'Taint right he" should be forgot him being away to 
China. 

Dorcas. 'Twas from Aberdeen Enoch wrote last 
week. 'E be in the North Sea along of Bob and Jack 
and Alfred. 

Timothy. Aye, aye, lass ; and so he be. You 
be quite correct." Don't you like your third mother ? 

Dorcas. 'Er's all right, dad ; but she and me's 
strange like as yet. . . . The Treuwicks is a marry- 
ing family, isn't they, dad ? 

Timothy. Aye, happen they be. 

Dorcas. 'Tis a wonder though you married 
chapel, seeing how you be churchwarden and strong 
for the church. 

Timothy. Her father was a good sailor man, and 
so was her late 'usband— a man what I respected. 
'Tweren't right such a decent sort of woman should 
be left stranded when here was your old dad a bachelor 
once more. 

Dorcas. Aye, 'tis a marrying family we are. . . . 
Dad, Bill Hawke's asked me again. 

(Timothy makes no answer.) 

Dad, Bill Hawke's asked me again, and it ain't fair 
he shouldn't have his answer. 
Timothy. And his answer is— No. What, a lass 



I 



GEORGE. 9 

of mine go for marrying a soldier when there's lots of 
fine upstanding sailor men about ! Never ! 

Dorcas. Ah, but you ain's seen Bill, dad. He's 
a cotporal and stands up fine and handsome, he does. 
Do 'ee let him come and see you. 

Timothy. Just let him show his nose in here, and 
I'll . . . I'll . . . I'll twist it for him, churchwarden 
or no churchwarden. 

Dorcas. You're cruel hard, Dad. 

Timothy. I've no opinion of soldiers. They're 
not hearty like sailor men. And 'tis no religion they 
have in them. 

Dorcas. A soldier's as good as a sailor- any day. 

Timothy. He is not — and that's gospel truth. 

Dorcas. For the last time, dad, I asks you — 
May I marry Bill Hawke ? 

Timothy. For the last time- — No ! 

Dorcas. But you've not never seen him, dad. 
Do 'ee let him call on me — do 'ee. 

Timothy. There's your mother. Just open the 
door for her. 

(Enter Martha.) 

Martha. There's a gale blowing up from Sou'- 
west. (Pours out beer.) 

Timothy. There, there — that's good sailor talk 
that is. A Sou'-wester, eh ? . . . Well, here's to 
Alf, what's away by China . . . 

Dorcas. He mean Enoch, mother. 

Timothy. 'Ere's to Alf. Good luck to you, lad. 

(Exit Dorcas by r.) 

Now where be she going to ? 

Martha. 'Er's going to play the 'armonium up 
at the church ; but 'er's fretting for that lad of 'ers, 
Timothy. 

Timothy. Now, mother, is it right or proper, that 
a Treuwick what's sot the salt sea in their veins 



10 



GEORGE. 



should go for to marry a landlubber soldier ?* What 
'ud Alf or Peter or 'Erbert say? 

Martha. But 'tis not all your boys follow the sea, 

Timothy. I say — what would 'Erbert what's 
bo'sun aboard His Majesty's ship the Billy Ruffian 
say if our Dorcas were to marry a chap what's all 
pipe-clay and buttons ? 

Martha. Is it ten or twelve lads thou has, 
Timothy ? 

Timothy. I misremember. 'Tis a many lads I 
have, and all fine upstanding sailor men. . . . Let 
me see — there's Alf and Peter and 'Eerbert and Jack 
.and Percy what's in the Navy — and Sid and Enoch 
what's in the Merchant Service and Bob and Fred 
an( j — but blow me tight I can't keep tally on them. 
But there's twelve on 'em, all fine upstanding sailor 

men. 

Martha. But isn't one of them a policeman up at 
Exeter, and another driving a bus up at Lunnon ? 

Timothy {firmly). And all on 'em fine upstanding 
sailor men, Martha. 

Martha. 'Tis lonesome for the lass now that the 
boys be grown up and 'er the only one left at home. 

Timothy. But don't they keep popping in to see 
'er ? Why, there's that a many lads keeps dropping 
in here and a-calling me " Dad " that it seems to me 
I've got more sons to my name than ever I've owned 
to. The lass has plenty company. 

Martha. Aye, but she be fair wrapt up in that 
Bill Hawke what folk say is a fine brave lad, though 
I ain't set eyes on him myself. 

Timothy. I'll Bill Hawke him if he comes round 
here courting. I'll pull his nose for him, that I will 
— churchwarden or no churchwarden. 

(Here enter from R. a sailor, dumps a bag and hangs 
his hat up without saying a word. The old people 
watch him in silent curiosity.) 

Well, and who be you ? 



GEORGE. |i* 

George. I'm George — sonjGeorge. And I hears 
you're married again, dad. You alius was one for 
the girls. . . . How do, mother. (Kisses her.) 

Timothy. Here, 'old 'ard ! Not so much fami- 
liarity. . . . George — George. Here, Martha, did 
I say as I had a son George ? 

Martha. Tha' didn't, Timothy ; but 'twasn't all 
of them tha' remembered. 'E must wipe 'is feet 
though. 

Timothy. Now look 'ee here, boy. There's lads 
keep dropping in here continual and calling of me 
dad. . . . Well, all's fair and square up to the 
round dozen, but when it comes to fifteen and eighteen 
'tis a reflection on my moral character what as 
churchwarden of St. Deiniel's I'm not going to stand 
for . . . George — I ain't got no son George. 

- George. Come now, dad. Surely you remember 
George — next after Alfred and eighteen months ahead 
of Frank. 

Timothy. I got no son George and that's gospel 
truth. 

George. 'Course you've got a son George. Don't 
you mind laying on to me with a strap for bricking 
up the top of parson's chimney and smoking him 
black ? 

Timothy. Now, now — that were Alf that were 
and well I walloped him, the young rascal. I never 
'ad no George. 

George. Well, I'm writ down plain in the Family 
Bible and many a times I've seen it. . . . Just you 
have a look, 

Timothy. That's fair and square, that is ? 
Mother, get out the oldlog book. 

(Martha gets Bible. Timothy puts on spectacles.) 

George. Now ain't I right ? 

Timothy (triumphantly). WTong, my boy, wrong. 
There was a George but he died. Here you are : 
"George — born November the first, 1890. Died in 



12 GEORGE. 

infancy, Cause — measles." .... So theve, my 
boy. 

George. Oh, but there was two of us, I were 
the second George. I come next after Alfred. 

Timothy. Um. Alfred. Here's Alfred and here 
• — why to be sure, there was a George . . . And so 
you're the lad, are you ? 

George. The very same. 

Martha. 'E ain't wiped 'is feet yet. 

Timothy. And a fine upstanding sailor man you 
be. I like the cut of your jib. . . . How are you, 
George ? (Shakes his hand.) 'Ave some beer ? 

George. Thank 'ee, dad. I don't mind if I do. 
(Gets up and wipes feet on mat.) 

Timothy. Mother, 'ere's our George come home. 
You be running along and getting another pint of 
four 'alf. 

Martha. Oh, well, if it ain't one thing, 'tis ano- 
other. 'Twas Alfred, and now 'tis George. 

(Takes jug and money. Exit by r.) 

Timothy. She's a handy women, but close. , . . 
You'll call her '"- Ma," won't you ? 

George. I'll call her anything, dad — anything 
that is, what '11 oblige you. . . . But where 's Dorcas.? 

Timothy. Dorcas. Oh, she's gone to the church 
to play the 'armonium — but 'er's chapel. 

George. Chapel. Why, dad, I thought you was 
against chapel. Chapel and church won't mix no 
more than oil and water you used to say. 

Timothy. Well, well — 'er late 'usband was a 
sailor man and a man what I respected and I kinder 
promised 'im as how I'd take his derelict in tow. . . . 
Are you married yourself, George ? 

George. No ; but I'm walking out wi' a girl. 
And a fine lass she is. But worst of it is, her father 
— what's a sergeant-major — don't hold with sailors. 

Timothy. What ! Just you say that again. 



GEORGE. 13 

George. I say he don't hold with sailors. He 
says they're not hearty. 

Timothy. What ! Sailor men not hearty ! 
, George. And that they've got no religion in them. 

Timothy. Sailors got no religion in them ! Blast 
his eyes. Just let me get at him and I'll — I'll — I'll 
pull his nose for him. . . . You go ahead courting, 
George. Marry the girl. Don't you be put off by 
any blooming sergeant-major. 

George. Aye, I mean to. 

Timothy. And just tell him your dad's a church- 
warden and very well respected. That'll settle him, 

(Enter Mrs. Treuwick.) 

George. All right, dad. 

Martha. As I say, if it isn't one thing, depend 
upon it's another. 'Ere you are." (Sets jug on table.) 

Timothy. George, I like the cut of your jib. 
You do me credit. 'Ow long are you staying ? 

George. Oh, just a night or so, if .you can rind me 
a bunk. 

Timothy. Oh, aye, we can do that well enough, 
can't us, mother ? . . . And I say, George, whenever 
you land in these parts, just you drop in. You're 
a chip of the old block, though I can't say as I remem- 
bers your features o'er well. 

George. I take after mother. 

Timothy. Happen that's it. 'Ave some beer. 
(Pours it out.) 

George. Thank you, dad. 

Martha. You don't object to a featherbed, do 
you, Mr. George ? 

George. Not me. 

Martha. 'Tis the one my poor dear late 'usband 
died on. But he won't be troubling you. He'd got 
religion. Maybe you're saved yourself. 

George. Saved. Yes, I've got a tidy bit put by, 
meaning to get married some day. 



14 GEORGE. 

Timothy. You go ahead, George, and marrv the 
girl. And damn that sergeant-major. 
^ Martha. I didn't say " Have you saved ? " but 
" Are you saved ? " 

Timothy. Now, now, mother. We's Church of 
England. I don't 'old with being saved. 

George. No more do I. But {here he stands up 
and salutes) I obeys orders and salutes my superior 
officer. 

Timothy. A right proper speech and a proper 
religion too. 

. Martha. Ah, well, if it isn't one thing, it's 
another. ... But 'tis mighty comforting all the 
same. 

(Enter Dorcas.) 

George (jumping up and kissing her). And how 
are you, Dorcas, lass ? 

Timothy. 'Old 'ard, 'od 'ard! Not so much 
familiarity. You're a bit bold, young man. 

George. But 'tis my own sister. 

Timothy. So you say. ... He says as 'e's my 
son George. Do you remember him, Dorcas, lass ? 

Dorcas. Why of course, I remember him. 
(Kisses him.) Why, I am pleased to see you. 'Ave 
you got your leave ? 

George. Yes, I've got my leave. (Sits down and 
and pulls Dorcas down on to his knee.) 

Timothy. 'Ere, 'old 'ard. Not so much famili- 
arity. Are you sure 'e's your brother George ? 

Dorcas. I knew him directly I set eves on him, 
dad. 

Timothy. Well, 'e's a fine upstanding lad and 
does me credit. 'Ave some more beer, George ? 

George. Don't mind if I do. 

Timothy. Mother, would you mind just running 
across the fetching another pint ? 

Martha. Not another pint you'll get to-night— 
none of you. 



GEORGE. 15 

Timothy. Well, what about 'alf a pint ? 

Martha. Not one drop what I'll buy you. You've 
had more than's good for you. So don't let's 'ave no 
more talk. 

Timothy. Well, George, I like the cut of your jib. 
'Tis pity you are my son George or you could have 
,'ad her. She's wanting a 'usband. 

George {putting his arm round Dorcas and hugging 
her). Then I'd be doing this (squeeze) and this (kiss) 
wouldn't I, dad ? 

Timothy. Ah, I see you've had plenty of practice. 

George. I have that. (Repeats it.) 

(Enter another sailor, dumps bag, Jiangs up hat and 
sits down. Dorcas jumps off George's knee.) 

Timothy. And who be you ? Now don't you be 
after calling me " Dad " because I won't 'ave it. 
I'll let you to know as I'm the churchwarden of this 
parish and as I won't stand for it. 'Tis scandalous ! 

George 2. But of course you're my dad. Don't 
you know me ? 

Timothy. I do not. Who be you ? 

George 2. I'm your son George. I got a bit of 
leave, so I just hopped up to see you. 

Timothy. George — you George. Get along with 
you. You died in infancy wi' the measles. 

George 2. Me dead. Not 'arf. . . . And is this 
your new missus? I've been bearing of her . . . 
How are you, mother? (Kisses her.) And sister 
Dorcas. (Makes to ^kiss her.) 

Timothy. 'Ere, 'old 'ard, young man ! Just 
you stop that. . . . This 'ere's my lad George. 
Just come 'ome 'e 'as and that's gospel. 

George 2. George. Him Gorge. Why . . . 
what does he mean by coming here and saying he's 
George ? 

Martha. Well, whoever you be, young man, you 
ain't wiped your boots. 

Timothy. Well, Dorcas shall settle the point. 



16 GEORGE. 

Stands to reason I can't be " Dad " to both of you 
unless happen you're twins which ain't writ down in 
the book. . . . Now, Dorcas, lass ; which of these 
two sailor men be our George ? 

Dorcas (indicating George i.). This 'ere's my 
choice. 

(At the same tune, Dorcas signals to George 2 to keep 
silent. George i squeezes her hand.) 

Timothy. There you are. So now hop it, my lad. 
I'm not going to be called "Dad " by every stray 
sailor man that don't know his rightful way home. 
Hop it ! 

George 2. That there fellow 'er brother. Why 
< • • 

(Dorcas signals silence.) 

Timothy. Hop it ! Outside with you, bag and 
baggage — coming here and saying you was George 
when George hisself's a-setting here. 

George 2. Him George Treuwick ! Then who 
the blazes be I ? Ain't I been sailing under that 
name these ten years ! 

Martha. Well, George or no George, let 'im wipe 
'is boots. 

Timothy. I don't know who you be, but I ain't 
going to 'ave my character took away, me being 
churchwarden too. You 'op along. 

George 2. (squaring up and hitting an imaginary 
foe). Well, I'll be waiting for 'im outside and I'll 
knock George out of 'im. He'll be weary William 
before I've finished with thim. 

George i. Garn with your talk ! 

(Exit George 2. Dorcas sees him out.) 

Timothy. 'Ave some more beer, George. . . . 
Ah, but there ain't any, worse the luck ! Ever see 
that bloke before ? 

George. I ! No, I did not. 



GEORGE. 17 

Timothy. Well, you're the lad for me. I like 
the cut of your jib. Tis pity you're a son of mine 
or you could have married our Dorcas. 

(Dorcas and George i exchange looks.) 

Well, I think as 'ow I'll go up aloft. Good night to 
you, George. Mother, you'll show 'im where to 
sling his hammock. (Goes to c. door.) 

Martha. Yes, when he's wiped them boots. 

(Dorcas pushes George i forward.) 

Timothy. Oh, he'll do. that. Wipe the boots, 
lad, afore tha comes up. 

George. But wait a minute, Mr. Treuwick, sir. - 

Timothy. What's that — what's that ? You 
mistering me, and a-calling of me " sir " ? 

George i. I ain't George. 

Timothy. What, you ain't George. By the Lord 
Harry but . . . 

George i. I'm Bill Hawke. 

Timothy (coming back into the room). Bill Hawke ! 

George i. Aye, Corporal Bill Hawke, and some 
day — as I hopes — sergeant Hawke. 

Timothy. Then you've told me a lot of lies, lad. 

George i. Well, no more than I could 'elp, Mr. 
Treuwick. I just wanted to introduce myself to you, 
seeing how I was courting your daughter — that's all. 

Timothy. A pack of lies. 'Tain't what 1 stand 
for seeing as 'ow I'm a churchwarden. 

George i. Well, I hope God Almighty will for- 
give me them same. 'Twere that wishful I was to 
be known to you. 

Timothy. Well, that's a proper speech, that is 
... I said I liked the cut of your jib, didn't I ? 

Dorcas. You sure did, dad. 

Timothy. And I said as happen you weren't my 
lad, you sould 'ave 'er. 

George i. Them was your very words, Mr. 
Treuwick. 



18 GEORGE. 

Dorcas-. They were so, dad, and if church can 
marry chapel, why not army and navy ? 

Timothy. You can 'ave 'er, Bill, and God bless 
you. • 

(The couple embrace.) 

Martha. And now, Mister Hawke, perhaps you'll 
wipe your boots. 

(Bill complies.) 

Timothy. "But, by the Lord Harry, who was that 
lad I just marched out at the door ? 

Dorcas. That was brother George. You must 
ask his pardon, Bill. 

Timothy. Eh. So that were the real George. . . 
Well, well, and if this isn't a fair mix up. 

(Loud knocking on door on r.) 

(Dorcas opens door and George appears pushing 
an aged bent-up old man, Josiah £obley, hobbling 
on sticks.) 

George. Now speak for me, granddad. Pull 
thyself together and speak for me. 

Timothy. What — Granddad. Now did you ever. 

Josiah Cobley (to Timothy). Aye, aye. He's 
treated me cruel, he has. Me what ain't walked 
these fifteen years, I be that old and poorly. 

George. Aye, and 'e 'opped along like a young 
'un, 'e did. Now, speak up, granddad, and say as 
'ow I'm your own daughter's son. 

Josiah Cobley. Ninety-two and a bittock and me 
that poorly. 

Timothy. It's all right, George. You be quite, 
within your rights a-calling of me dad. 

George. No, 'e'll speak for me. . . . Calling of 
himself George Treuwick — I'll show' im. . . . Now, 
granddad. . . . You ain't silly, are you ? 

Timothy. It's all right, George, lad. You're 



GEORGE. 19 

my son* George. I remembers your features. . 
This 'ere's Bill Hawke. 

Bill. Aye, Corporal Bill Hawke and I got to beg 
your pardon. You see I be a-courting Dorcas, and 
I borrowed your name as it were for to get acquainted 
with your dad, 'im being kind of prejudiced again 
the army. 

George. Bill Hawke — for two pins I'd . . 

Bill. Oh, that's your game, is it. In 'alf a mo' 
I'd . . . 

Dorcas. Behave yourself, George. Shake his 
'and, Bill. 'E's my lad and we be engaged. 

Bill. So we be. And if ever you'd like to. pass 
yourself off as Bill Hawke, you're welcome I'm sure. 

George. Thank you kindly. I'll make a note 
on it. . . . Well, seeing you's to be my brother-in- 
law, you and me's got to be pals. Shake. (They 
shake.) 

Josiah Cobley. That old I be, that weak in me 
legs, and 'e pulled me out of my bed. 

Timothy (indicating Josiah Cobley). 'E'd better 
go back to 'is bed, 'e 'ad. 

. George. Oh, I'll make 'im 'op it back again soon. 
'E's a lot spryer than he makes to be. 

(Granddad begins to cry. Martha comforts him.) 

Martha (leading him). Come and sit you down, 
granddad, and rest yourself. Us'll take care of you. 

George. Dad, I've got a present for you 'ere. A 
bottle of whisky. 

Josiah Cobley. Eh ? What did grandson Jarge 
say— whisky ? 'Tis a many days since I 'ad a sup 
of whisky. 

George. 'Ear that ? (Goes to get whisky.) 

Timothy. 'E certain ought to go back to 'is bed. 

Josiah Cobley. I'd sooner stay and 'ave a sup of 
whisky. Where be you gotten it,, Jarge? (Gets 
up and hobbles after George.) 

George. In my kit-bag. . . . We'll drink some 
healths, dad. 



2() GEORGE. 

Timothy. And him bedridden these ten years. 
'Tis wonders will never cease. 

Martha. Aye. 'Ebea humbug like the rest of 
you. 
(Whiskey is handed round. To granddad as well.) 

Timothy. Thank 'ee. I'm glad you didn't die 
of the measles, George. You're a fine upstanding 
lad. 

George. Measles be blowed. Takes more than 
that to kill a sailor. ... Here's a health for you — 
Corporal Bill Hawke, his blushing bride and His 
Majesty's Army. 

Bill. Thank 'ee kindly. 

Josiah Cobley. I feel merry already. Happen 
I'll not be going to my bed yet a while. 

Bill. And here's another — George Treuwick and 
His Majesty's Navy. 

George. And to 'ell with Germany. 

Curtain. 



ft T«uw P#mk md Ual« 



Continued from second page of cover. 

SCENERY. 



Our ttock of scenery consists of 

The Oak Chamber Set. 

This scene will be found suitable for the purpose of an 
ordinary interior in nearly all plays requiring a room 
which is not representing a drawing-room, kitchen, or a 
very poverty-stricken type of room. The kind of 
furniture used in it will naturally do much to indicate the 
status of the people inhabiting 

The Drawing-room Chamber. 

This scene has been prepared on exactly the same 
lines as the oak chamber, and with the same object in 
view — the increase in both height and width according 
to requirement. 

Both Large and Small Garden Scenes 
Both Large and Small Wood Scenes 

A Drop Scene 

Puffed Satin Paper for Proscenium 

Fireplaces 

House-piece for Street Scene 

Interior Window and Interior Doors 

FULLY ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE 

Sent gratis 00 application to SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd., 34 

Southampton Street, Strand, London ; or 28 West 38th Street, 

New York City, U.S.A. 



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French's Acting Edition 



2513 THE HEADMASTER. By Wilfred T. Coleby 

and Edward Knoblauch -Is. 

2514 BEFORE BREAKFAST. By Ghita Sowerby . 6d. 

2515 GENTLEMEN, THE KING! By Campbell Todd Is. 

2516 SELF-SUPPORTING. By Margaret Young . 6d. 

2517 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. By C. B. Fer- 

nald !■• 

2518 A LITTLE ADDRESS. By Margaret Young . 6d. 

2519 THE LIARS. By Henry Arthur Jones . . Is. 

2520 JUST TO GET MARRIED. By Cicely Hamilton Is. 

2521 THE KING WHO HAD NOTHING TO LEARN. 

By Leon M. Lion 6d. 

2522 THE GATE OF DREAMS. By Dion Clayton. 

Calthrop . . .... 6d. 

2523 THE REST CURE. By Gertrude E. Jennings . 6d. 

2524 ACID DROPS. By Gertrude E. Jennings . 6d. 

2525 THE QUOD WRANGLE. By Oliphant Down. 6d. 

2526 HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND. By 

Richard Pryce and Arnold Bennett . . .1$. 

2527 A COLLECTION WILL BE MADE. By 

Arthur Eckersley 6d. 

2528 THE RECRUIT. A Play of the Moment . 6d. 

2529 THE COMPLEAT ANGLER. By Arthur Scott 

Craven and J. D. Beresford .... 6d. 

2530 ADVERTISEMENT. By Basil Macdonald Hast- 

ings ........ Is. 

2531 THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. ByEdenPhai- 

potts and Basil Macdonald Hastings . . .Is. 

2532 THE STORY OF CORPORAL BELL. A Play 

for Present Times 6d. 



The published prices are net 



